Day 388

The whistling carried along the fort walls, drifting along and back as if it were pacing.
On clear nights you could hear footsteps accompanying it, they varied from soft pitters
to many thundering feet stampeding along the ramparts.
When it rained you could see them.

Clothing like theirs hadn't been worn for hundreds of years yet they looked freshly dressed.
The rain seemed to form them rather than soak them.
Each night they paced, it was seemingly endless and nothing would put them to rest.
The people tried, the living ones reached out in every manner to calm the marchers.

The whistling at least was cheerful, even if the beings accompanying it were not.
One young lad tried to talk to the whistler, whatever they said he hasn't spoken since.
He was one of the lucky ones too - others have come back far worse or not at all.
Still they pace, always those same ramparts and always those same people.

Though there was one day, only one day where the pattern changed.
I remember it well, the rain was so heavy it formed a sort of fog on the ground.
Made it much easier to see them - they looked almost like real living people.
They usually stopped by the stairs and turned back but on that day they continued onward.

The march went through the town and turned violent the further along they went.
It got to the point where they were yelling and screaming only their words were warped.
Maybe they were talking backwards, maybe they weren't saying words at all.
Either way they destroyed several dozen homes, booted doors down and threw furniture all over.

Nobody was hurt at least, dazed perhaps, confused and worried too but not hurt.
The marcher's faces though... never seen anyone manage to look so enraged and scared all at once.
Nobody's managed to figure them out, not even from that night - there's nothing in the books.
Still they march though, maybe they'll come down again in a hundred or so years.